In The Embers
by medievalstranger
Summary: Set after Reign episode 305. Happiness is the one thing we queens can never have—maybe in this world, that is true, but maybe in the afterlife… she'll finally find her happiness when she's reunited with her one true love. or the side of the Francis-Mary love story we might never see


_We live and we die_

 _Like fireworks_

 _Our legacies hide_

 _In the embers_

Mary shuts the door of their chamber loudly and lets out a muffled sob, she slides down the cold door ever so slowly, the frigid wood hard against her back. She pulled her knees to her chest, like it's the only thing that she can hold on to. Her hands are still trembling and her dress is still stained with blood— _Francis'_ blood—she feels the sudden urge to remove it and keep it away from her sight as an attempt to deny everything that has happened, maybe by then it won't hurt, maybe by then her heart won't feel as though it is being repeatedly crushed inside her chest.

Later that evening, she refused to let the servants inside the chambers, insisting that she can change to her night gown herself. In truth, she doesn't really want them to see her in that state, she doesn't want them to look at her with pity. She knows she needs to be strong now more than ever, if not for herself then for the people Francis has left behind— _Francis—_ even the mere thought of him makes Mary feel like air is being pulled out of her lungs, the pain suffocating her. Just hours ago, Francis was the one untying the corset of the very same dress she's wearing, and now that dress is nothing but a painful reminder of what she has lost; _her home, her most precious possession,_ her husband that so dearly loved her, and whom she also loved—loves—in return.

After changing into her night gown, she crawled to their bed that now seemed awfully big for just one person, she reached for Francis' pillow and clutched it tightly to her chest, inhaling his scent that is barely there, never mind if her tears are still unceasingly falling from her tired eyes, never mind if they are wetting everything in their path, she doesn't have the strength to wipe them, doesn't have the strength to pretend that she is alright, because she's not, and she probably never will be . And though exhaustion alone should have driven her to sleep, her mind insists on keeping her up, the memory of the happenings earlier haunts her even when she shuts her eyes and there's nothing but silence save from the crackling of fire and her stifled sobs.

And though she doesn't want to, she recalls the smile of relief she and Francis threw at each when they thought the fight in the woods was over—when they thought they're already safe—but then she also recalls the way Francis fell on his knees and unto the ground after saving her. And the way he grasps her wrist so tightly like his life depended on it, the way he struggles to say every word amidst the look of pain in his eyes, she barely even registered the words that he said, she was too distracted to think of a way to save him, _there must be a way she silently prays,_ and probably she was also thinking—hoping—that this is all just a bad dream, like the nightmares she used to have when Francis lied sickly beside her, his breathing labored and slow. But she can't fool herself, right in front of her is Francis dying in her arms, and there's nothing she can do about it, and so with Francis' pleading voice she found herself promising blindly the things that even she herself is unsure of. She promised that she'll stay, that she'll help Catherine become regent, that she'll take care of _his_ son, and that she'll do for Francis' sake… but to wed another—to _love_ another—that's something that she can't—won't—do. She said that she'll never love anyone the way she loves Francis, those were her last words that she spoke to him and in truth, those are the ones that matter most.

She doesn't know it yet but she unknowingly hold on to those words all her life, it wasn't just a statement spoken out of whim or impulse, it was a promise she carried to her grave and even to the next life.

She carried on of course, she moved on at some point—or so they thought she did. What the people didn't know is that she barely eats or sleeps, hardly even smiles. She survived yes, but she knows deep down that she ceased on living the day Francis slipped away from her grasp while she helplessly sits beside him and she was forced to move on because she has to.

The whole of French court seems to have died as well, the colour drained from the once lush garden, the once vibrant castle now seems to be nothing but a place encaged by cold, hard walls—or maybe that's just the way Mary sees things ever since Francis died.

And so when it all becomes too hard for her to bear, she sneaks out of the castle and goes sailing alone. Servants would gossip about it and say that it's their queen's way of escaping reality, of running away from her duties even just for a while. But they're wrong—as they often are—Mary doesn't go sailing to escape, but to connect… not to forget but to try to remember the things that Francis taught her because they're the only one of the few things that she has left of him; the memories that she hold dear, the boat that he made for her, the clothes that he wore, the swords that he left in her old chambers—she even found a dagger among Francis' beautifully crafted swords, a dagger that she carries with her wherever she goes, because it makes her feel safe, believing that somehow, Francis—or something of his, at least—will always be with her.

Every piece of jewellery that Francis gave her was returned and so she was left with nothing but his things, and this boat that she tries hard not to capsize. She tries to remember all the boating lessons she had with Francis and she can almost hear him instruct her to set her course and to tighten the sheet until the sail stops luffing, and that's what she did. And when the sail becomes steady she can almost hear him say _you did it_ , quite proudly, and in that moment, she can feel her chest lighten just a little, and she says to herself that maybe—just maybe—she can make it after all.

Weeks passed and their problems come and go. And though it has long occurred to her that she is no longer the Queen of France, she knows that she must continue her duties to Scotland, and part of that duty is to find an alliance, one that her country will benefit from. And even though she is not yet ready to marry, much less love, she accepts Spain's proposal of marriage. Again, people will say she moved on quickly, they'll say that what she shared with Francis is just brotherly love, that she didn't love him as much as he loved her, that she seduced and manipulated the English ambassadors—Nicholas and Gideon—into turning against their own queen. They might also say that it's the other way around, that she was the one who was manipulated, that she fell in love with Gideon so soon after Francis' death, that it's her love for him that made her drop her engagement with Don Carlos later on.

But those people knew nothing of her feelings, how could they even? When she didn't know her feelings herself. She thought—no, she _believed_ that she has moved on, the fight for Catherine's regency, the engagement with Don Carlos, not to mention the endless dire situation in Scotland kept her preoccupied that she barely even thinks of her own needs, her own pain. And so with many things going on, she thought that maybe her wound is healing, that maybe after all those weeks, she finally find it in herself to let Francis go.

But when they unload Francis' remains from the carriage, her eyes were glued on his coffin even after Catherine warned her to avert her eyes, after all this time, she realized that she still can't let him go. She was so stubborn—as she always has been—she wanted to see him, even just a glimpse… because she missed him so—and she misses him still. But all the time she was standing there, overwhelmed with so many emotions, she forgot that he has been dead for _weeks_ and it's probably not a good idea to look or even take a glimpse on his corpse. But it was what she needed (or so she thought it is) so she looked anyway, and was utterly _horrified_ of what she saw. But she wasn't horrified of Francis, she would never be… instead, she was horrified of how nature corrupted him, how Francis—her King, her one true husband, the love of her life—was reduced to a mere _thing;_ a lifeless decaying corpse. Though she knows that Francis is elsewhere, that his soul and memory live on as Lola stated, and it's but natural for the dead to decay, she can't stand the fact that what was left of him is used like a thing, pulled back and forth at the court's will. He deserved better than that, he deserved better than to be used by the people he once served. And so that night Mary wept as she most often do the first weeks after Francis died, thankfully Lola stayed with her for the last time before she went to England to save her family.

"I fear that I will be too late to save them… my family is the only thing I have left and Jean—I already lost Narcisse, I can't lose them too" Lola said as she shared her feelings with her Queen, one of the few friends she has left

"I know Lola, I am so sorry. I only wish you don't suffer the same fate I had, you lost Narcisse while I—"Mary wasn't able to finish as she lets out another sob, Lola rubbed her shoulder soothingly in attempt to ease her pain

"It's alright Mary, you don't need to hide your pain from me, I know you're still hurting about Francis—"

"Losing him was my greatest fear once… and now that he's gone I—I fear that I won't be able to remember his face… the way he looked when the sun shines upon him, his curls that seemed to reflect the light—and his eyes, so blue I have never seen a shade like it, and his voice—you know he used to hold me as I cry when I was a child, when I first arrived at court and I missed my mother too much. He always seemed to know what exactly I needed, he sang me a lullaby once too, when I couldn't sleep—he was horrible at it though, he never did manage to finish, because I was giggling at his tune, then he walks away offended." Mary smiles a little as she remembers the memory, Lola squeezed her hand gently to let her know that she's there for her

"what you had was true Mary, nothing or _no one_ could ever change that, no matter what happens in the future, you will always have his memory with you and he will always live in your heart" Lola muttered comfortingly, she reached for Mary's cheeks and wiped her tears gently

"but what if I fall in love with another? What if—"

"I'm sure that's what Francis would have wanted, for you to find your happiness again"

"I just wish he never had to leave so soon, we could have been happy—"

"but Mary you were happy, you both were. And it doesn't matter how long the time you spent with each other—one year of marriage might not be enough but other people never even get a chance with happiness—with _love_. And even if you do find someone new, it does not really mean that you will love Francis any less. This notion that only one person can own your heart is a lie, we love so many people at the same time, but with different degrees, I guess what really matter is at the end of it all, you must need to figure out who you love the _most_. And so far, if I judged things right, it's still Francis isn't it?"

"yes" Mary replied as a single tear rolls down her cheek, her chest tightening by the mere thought of him

"oh I miss him so much Lola, everything here in French court seems to remind me of him, this place feels so wrong without him around"

"I know, that's why you need to reconsider going back to Scotland, Mary, to our country"

"I will leave for Scotland as soon as Catherine is secured as regent, it's time to reclaim our country before we lose it to England" Mary said firmly, her voice suddenly filled with strength and determination she has always have within her. Francis has always been the most precious possession she fear on losing, and the enemy made a wrong decision taking him away from her, because with him gone, she no longer has any fear, and a fearless Queen is capable of anything.

The ship to Scotland has set its sail and the Queen's belongings have already been loaded, but the most important ones she insisted to be delivered to her cabin, including the chest where she keeps Francis' belongings. Twilight fell and the crew have already started urging Mary to rest inside her cabin but she resists. She stands firmly in the stern, her hands gripping the taffrail for support as she painfully watches the shoreline of France recede, tears streaming her face as sadness gnaws at her whole being.

She doesn't expect the crew to understand why she insists on staying in the stern, she also doesn't bother to explain. She just stands there, carefully remembering every detail, every memory she had in France, the people she left, the people that has left her and _Francis_ —it's always been connected to Francis—everything that she has ever done, everything that she might do, is directly or indirectly connected to him.

Just like tonight when she insists on staying at the deck, at first she told herself that she only wanted to see France for the last time, but later on she realizes, even the blue sky and the ocean reminds her of Francis, the times they spent sailing, the times he has let her set the course of their sail—even when she nearly capsized the boat—just to let her feel that she's in control, that he will let her dictate the course of their lives if it means they will spend it together. She suppose that it was what she loved and missed about her relationship with Francis, there was always constant interaction, push and pull of forces and yet there's still balance between them, they were each other's equals, each other's confidante. She only hope she will find something like that in Scotland, or something close to it at the very least, because she knows nothing would ever compare to Francis, but she has to try to at least find someone that will respect her enough to obey her, and not just follow her out of fear, she doesn't want that. She wants to be a different kind of queen, one that Francis; her one true husband will be proud of, she is still after all, and will always be, a married Queen of France.

 _ **Francis**_

He knows how stubborn Mary can be, even though he practically told her—as he lay dying on a messy forest bed—to marry and love again, he knows she won't actually do it so abruptly after his death out of respect for him. So he waited, and waited and waited until the day Mary finally meets the next man she is going to love. He can't find peace until he sees her _truly_ happy again, how can he? When he knows he's the very person that made her miserable, the very person that left her just when they she thought she has him again. Though he never really left, did he? He has watched her from afar all these years, and it broke his heart to see her becoming more and more miserable each passing day because he is not with her, and he wishes to change that, if only he can. He wants what's best for her, as always, and right now what is best for her and her country is another alliance, another marriage. Although he knows it will also break his heart to see her move on with someone else, to see her bury him at the back of her mind, probably forgotten permanently—he's not a saint, never has been, never claimed to be, he was a man once with actual feelings, with imperfections and with urges of jealousy—but despite all that he still want the best for his wife, because he knows, deep down, that he would, without a doubt, break his own heart if it means giving hers another chance.

Mary, several years after Francis' death, has now been married and widowed twice over, outliving all her husbands and separated from his son since infancy. Several months before her execution, she patiently lies in wait for her enemies to put her head on the block and be done with it. She lived a life full of sorrow after all, death would almost seem like a relief to her, like something she has been waiting for since her first husband left this earth. And now, she spends her days embroidering since there's nothing much to be done lately. But there are also rare times, times like this one when she can't bear the sadness any longer and so she convinced one of her trusted maids that has stayed with her for so long, to have a drink with her, if only to numb the pain. Several hours later, they were still up and talking, much to the maid's dismay since she has to be up early the next morning.

"I am a widow" Mary blurts out drunkenly, completely forgetting that Rose has known her for so long she probably know every single part of her life story by now, save one that Mary hasn't talked about to anyone ever since she remarried.

"Yes three times over, I heard." Rose replied, addressing Mary like a friend, because a friend she truly is, treating them like an equal, insisting that they call her Mary instead of Queen Mary since she has long abdicated her throne in Scotland.

"No, not three times, only once. I don't consider myself a widow of my last two husbands" Mary said, correcting her, she shakes her head as she muttered the words

"Why not?"

"Our marriage was doomed to end long before they died, Henry didn't actually want me, just my crown, and James—well, I'm not really sure what James wanted, maybe it's a bit of both"

"And the first husband? What made him different from the others? I heard he was just a boy—"

"Just a boy—and I was… just a girl…" Mary chuckled drunkenly

"well, continue! You never talk about Francis, not once" Rose insisted

"Francis, Francis, Francis—the more I speak it the more nonsense it gets… it has lost all its meaning you know, ever since he died—"

"What lost its meaning? I don't understand—"

"Francis. Francis is not my husband, Francis is just a name, you see"

"Oh dear lord, just when I thought you are finally going to talk about him" Rose teased, she grabbed another goblet and poured the drink into her throat, her expression souring with every gulp

"I don't normally speak about him because it hurts, it still hurts after so many years, is that even possible?" Mary laughs bitterly to herself

"Well, I suppose it is. I mean, look at you. But you still hasn't answered my question you know, why do you consider yourself as a widow of Francis only?"

"Because our marriage never actually ended, if he didn't die, we'd still be together. You see, Francis and I loved each other, we were different, we're not just royals married for alliances. We loved each other till the end, it's only death that kept us apart, unlike the two others…."

"So, let's just say, all three of your husbands were alive at the same time and you have to choose only one man to marry, you would still choose Francis?"

"'course! It's him, it's always been him and he will always be my choice. I never would have married Henry and James if Francis never died—but he did and now we're here"

"Do you miss him still?" Rose blurted out without thinking, she doesn't want to pry but her curiosity won the best of her

"More and more every day, Rose. More and more every day." Mary replied, her voice filled with sadness and longing, her eyes blank. And with that, Rose took another drink to stop her mouth from saying out loud the questions she only keeps to herself, afraid that if she ask it to Queen Mary, she'll make her upset, and now she has, and she mentally scolds herself for that.

Not far from where Rose is sitting, is the cloth of state that hung above Mary's seat, embroidered on it were the French words " _En ma Fin gît mon Commencement". In the end is my beginning._

Mary was relatively calm during the day of her execution, she was not afraid nor was she dreadful of what's to come, her ladies and servants on the other hand, were uncontrollably weeping by the time she went up the scaffold facing the 300 audience in attendance. For the first time since Francis' death, she was thankful that he was not there to witness her demise. _I cannot abandon you unprotected_ he once said, it seemed so long ago but she still clings to his words until the last moment of her life. And when they finally wrapped a silk handkerchief around her eyes—after what seemed like a dozen execution rites—and she places her head on the block, there was a tiny thought that comforted her. To her people, this is the day that they'll lose the Queen of Scotland, the Queen Dowager of France and the heir to the English throne, to her enemies, it's the day when they finally eliminate Elizabeth's rival, a Catholic Queen in a protestant nation, but to her, the day of her death is not only the end—the end of her miseries and troubles on this earth—but also the beginning—the beginning of a new life on the other side, the afterlife she has oh so desired ever since her loved ones left her one after the other, living her alone in this perilous world. She knows—she _hopes_ , rather, that considering the pain she's been through, the world beyond would be kind to her, and will finally let her experience the happiness that was abruptly taken away from her when Francis died. _Happiness is the one thing we queens can never have_ —maybe in this world, that is true, but maybe in the afterlife… she'll finally find her happiness when she's reunited with her one true love. And so she says his name over and over again in her mind thinking that by doing so, her soul will find him when she finally leaves her earthly body. She says it like a prayer, like the only promise she has been holding on to all her life, and when the cold, sharp axe finally meets the skin of her neck, she was at peace.

She feels a warm air that envelopes her whole body and can see nothing but white even the ground that she's stepping on.

She can sense someone approaching her from behind and a smile grew on her face in an instant,

"Francis?" she calls out hopefully. But when the figure approaches her further, she realized that it's not Francis but one of her late husbands.

"Henry—"Mary uttered

"Is that disappointment I hear in your voice?" Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley teased, although he could not hide the hurt in his voice

"I suppose, I was not the one you were expecting, am I?—"

"that's right, because she was expecting me, Lord Darnley" James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, Mary's last husband interrupted

"James! You're here too—"Mary finally said after a moment of confusion

"where's Francis?" she added in a split second, but regrets it when she saw the face of her former lovers fell at the mention of Francis' name

"ah—I see, it's still him then, after all those years of marriage to me" Henry spoke, with almost a hint of—what is it, disdain, jealousy?—Mary can't quite decipher the tone in his voice

"Henry, I loved you. I did, you know that."

"yes but it was not enough. Your love for me was never enough, was it? Not enough to forget your first husband… all my life, I thought I was competing with one of your secretaries, ha!" Henry scoffs almost bitterly

"I was competing with a dead man all along" Henry bowed his head, mocking a curtsy and left almost as quickly as he appeared.

"Mary, _my_ Mary—I missed you so" James approached her after Henry left, his hands softly caressing her cheek

"you never came back for me—" Mary said coldly

"I offered myself so that you'll be saved, but you never came back for me—did you know I miscarried our twins while I was imprisoned?" Mary said with a hint of anger in her voice, barely noticeable in her flat tone

"Mary I tried, but you know how difficult it was—you weren't the only who suffered, I suffered too!"

"and that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"no, but I expect you to understand!"

"Mary—listen, I've waited for you here, ever since I entered the afterlife. I waited so that we could be together again, isn't that enough? And _Francis_ —"James said, saying Francis' name with disgust and anger

" _your_ Francis, where is he now? He didn't wait for you, but I did!" James said almost stopping when he sees tears falling from Mary's eyes

"he left you Mary, and you expect him to wait for you after all these time?—"

"stop! Stop. Do not speak of him that way"

"why not? You think you love him but you only loved the idealized version of him. Making him almost a saint in your mind, so that we, your other husbands would pale in comparison to him. And there he was, safe and untarnished in your heart while we laid defenceless of your judgments, your prejudices! But where is he now, Mary? Where is he now?"

"stop it, leave me be I beg of you" Mary pleaded, tears streaming in her eyes

"be sure of that Mary. Because you only get to spend eternity alone or with one other, and when the choice is made, it cannot be undone. If I leave you now, you might live the eternity alone, if you never find Francis… but if you choose me, you'll have someone to spend your eternity with—please, this is our time to be together without anyone holding us back. With me you have certainty—with Francis, well, you only have hope."

"I would rather have hope with him than certainty anywhere else. Goodbye, James" Mary said firmly, and this time she turned her back against him before he even get the chance to walk away from her, as he most often did.

She wakes several hours, or days after, she's not really sure how long, or how she even got to where she is now. She opens her eyes and see a familiar tree she know she's seen somewhere a long time ago, but she's not sure where. But as the fog clears out she can slowly see—a lake? Mary rubs her eyes to make sure that what she's seeing is actually a lake— _the lake_ she and Francis sailed together. She quickly got up on her feet and found herself desperately looking for a boat, but finds none. Disappointment gnaws at her heart but she refused to give up hope just yet, she walks further and feels the sand tickling her bare feet, she then realizes—that amazingly—she no longer wears the awfully big gown that she wore on her execution, but the white dress she wore when she and Francis went sailing together, her skin also, was not old and slightly wrinkled but young, firm and almost glowing with her dress. Gone are the signs of aging in her face and body, her once lush hair braided in a delicate pattern, her whole body feels anew, like she's young again, like she never even aged since that day she shared with Francis, a day before he left her weeping in the woods bathed in sunlight.

Her heart lightens a little bit at the sight of her reflection in the water, but it offers little comfort since she hasn't seen Francis after what seemed like days of waiting. She wipes away the terrifying thought—that she is going to spend all of her eternity looking for Francis—at the back of her mind. She has spent years and years waiting to be reunited with Francis, a few more days of searching for him won't hurt, she thinks to herself. After the fog clears out completely, she can almost see a small boat sailing on the horizon, it's too far to recognize anyone on it but she waves her hand anyway, hoping to catch the sailor's attention. She finds herself getting closer and closer to the boat, braving the cold water of the lake, though it seemed like the more she approaches it, the more it moves away. She waves her hand over and over again and for what seemed like a call of desperation and longing, she shouts his name.

"Francis!" Mary calls out, though she's not really sure if the person on the boat can hear her or if that person is even Francis.

"Francis, please!" She says as she waves her hands tiringly now

"Francis!" She says once again, her voice almost shaking probably because the coldness of the water is starting to send chills to her body or because she is fighting back her tears that threaten to fall any minute, fearing that if her tears will blur her eyes for just a second, the boat will be gone from her sight. She bites her lower lip in desperation as her chin wobbles but she waves her hand continuously facing the boat's direction. Much to Mary's dismay, the boat turned its sail to an opposite direction and sails away from her, getting tinnier and tinnier every passing minute.

"no, no, no, no, please come back! Please!" But the boat continues to sail away into the sunset, leaving Mary crying in frustration. She retreats back to the shore with the lower half of her dress dripping wet, she squeezed its fabric in attempt to dry it quickly. She's been so busy and frustrated drying her clothes that she didn't notice the boat turning towards her and approaching her rather quickly, the wind favouring the sails.

Mary is flapping the hem of her dress back and forth to get rid of the sands, when she hears someone calling her name, a voice she would recognize anywhere, the tone of recognition and love so familiar, it hurts.

"Mary?"

Mary turns around quickly and looked for the origin of the voice and then her eyes were glued on him, _only him._

"Francis?" she gasps out loud, her voice almost breaking. She runs towards the water as she sees Francis getting off the boat, running in the water as well, they can't seem to get fast enough to each other and it's the most beautiful thing one will ever witness. When they finally came face to face with each other, almost laughing and crying at the same time as they catch their breath, it was Francis who leans down to capture her lips on his, and in that moment he can feel the tears running from Mary's eyes, wetting his thumb that holds her cheek gingerly. Her lips parted allowing his entrance and he takes his time to ravish and taste her lips, remembering the feeling of how soft and delicate it feels against his own. They broke apart moments after, both with tears in their eyes, Mary reached out to caress Francis' cheeks, making sure that he is real, that he is actually here in front of her, after years of being apart.

"you came back to me, you came back!" Mary uttered with almost disbelief, Francis beaming at her like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. And their foreheads touch as they hold their heads against each other, Francis' hands on Mary's cheek and Mary's fingers feeling the soft and golden curls of her husband she most definitely missed. She cried right then and there moments after, she can't help it, they have been apart for so long and now she's finally holding him in her arms. Francis, of course, soothes her as he always do, making her feel better with just a touch of his hands on her cheeks, wiping the tears that wet them.

"shhh, I'm here now, Mary. And I'm never going to leave you"

"you promise?" Mary says, her eyes focused on Francis', almost pleading

"I promise" Francis replied and kissed her temple sweetly. Mary buries her head on the crook of his neck as Francis holds the back of her head with one hand and the other clutching her waist gently against his body, he feels her sobs erupts so he whispers sweet nothings against her ear, trying almost desperately to ease her pain and reassure her that he's here for her, always has been and always will be, because he won't leave her, not now, not ever.

They woke up hours after, their naked, tangled limbs covered by a mere cape trimmed with fur that Francis has kept in his boat, they were lying on another one of Francis' capes but it wasn't thick enough that Francis can still feel the grass underneath it. He draws pattern on Mary's bare shoulder as she traces his chest delicately, his right arm she used as her pillow. She can feel Francis placing a soft kiss on the top of her head as she holds her body tightly against her, never wanting to miss the way his bare skin feels against her own.

"What have you been doing all this time, my love?" Mary asks, looking up to Francis, her fingers caressing his beard

"waiting for you" Francis replied calmly

"oh really? Doesn't seem like it" Mary teased as she feels him laugh against her

"where were you really? When I first came here?"

"you mean why wasn't I waiting for you at the gates?" Francis asked as Mary nods at him and looks at him expectantly

"I suppose—I…"

"it's alright Francis, you can tell me" Mary stated reassuringly

"I thought you weren't going to choose me" Francis replied reservedly

"what?" Mary laughs smacking his chest lightly

"you can't be serious" she added, looking at Francis with a more serious tone and then she finds in his eyes that he is, in fact, serious and was actually worried that she wouldn't choose him among all her other husbands

"Francis—" Mary says worryingly

"I know, I know you think it's ridiculous but—I told you to find love, Mary and I meant that, and I seriously hope you did find love after I was gone, because I couldn't bear the thought of leaving you on earth as I take all your chances of happiness with me—I wanted you to move on, to be happy without me, even though it broke my heart to see you love someone else"

"and when you finally came here, I couldn't find it in myself to watch you choose someone over me—I'm sorry" Francis said, his voice dropping, he looks away abashed

"oh Francis, it's you. It's always been you. And I'm going to tell you something but it's not to hurt you or make you feel guilty for leaving me so early but to prove to you that I love you more than anyone else—I loved them too you know, my other husbands. I thought I couldn't love again after I lose you but my heart opened up after years of hurting—but that love, it was never greater than what you and I shared, than what we _still_ share with each other… I realized that there are different kinds of love; the true, the right, the wrong and the false. What I shared with Henry—I thought it was true, but as it turns out, it was only right and false at the same time. Marrying him was right for my country, and I thought I loved him so went along with it, but I realized, he only wanted my crown, my power… It was never anything like what you and I shared, it was false, not true. And James, well I thought I loved him too, maybe what we shared is a love that is true, but others would say that our love was wrong, because he's still married to his wife and that our marriage was not really valid in the eyes of the church, I don't know if it's right either, for my country it wasn't… and maybe even for me"

"I'm sorry" Francis muttered because he can't think of anything else to say

"Don't apologize, Francis. None of it was your fault. I know you never wanted to leave me if you could help it… and what we have… well, it was more than enough to keep me going."

"What do you think our love is, then? Is it right, or true?"

"Both" Mary utters proudly before bringing her lips to his, tasting his scent, she nuzzles her nose to his before speaking

"our love is right and true, Francis. It is right for the both of us, for our countries, our people, for the church and it is true as well, I suppose that's why I chose you. Because even from the start, before I even know it, you were my only choice."

"There was never a day when I don't think about you, even when I'm held captive it was always you who keeps me sane, I had hold on to the thought of seeing you again, even in afterlife, to urge myself to keep on living, so that when we finally meet again, you'd be proud of how strong I was, of how strong you made me" Mary added as she caresses Francis cheeks and parting his lips slightly by the brush of her fingers

"I am proud of you Mary, I just hope you don't regret your choice anytime soon" Francis jokes, the smile returning on his face

"You do realize you're stuck with me for the rest of eternity, right?" Mary teases, reflecting his beam

"yes and I plan to take full advantage of it" Francis mutters before he buries his face on the crook of her neck, kissing and sucking the skin gently. She moans in pleasure and placed her hands on his head, gripping his curls. She gasped as he positions himself on top of her and his hands travel to the sensitive parts of her body. It was already dark and the cold breeze is beginning to send chills down her spine, but they both don't seem to mind when they're making each other warm by making love under the blanket of a million stars.

They lie there for several hours but this time, Mary's the one who wakes up first, nudging Francis who is peacefully sleeping beside her.

"hmmm?" Francis said with a sleepy tone

"is there any house near here? It's getting cold" Mary said as she pulls the cape up to cover her bare shoulder

"well then, I suppose it's up to me keep my wife warm" Francis said as he kisses the side of her jaw seductively

"Francis!" Mary said in protest while giggling like a girl she once was

"we can't keep making love every time a cold wind rises" she said, as a matter-of-factly

"why not?" Francis said, joking, but still continues on placing hot kisses on her neck and shoulder

"we have all the time in the world, we can do whatever we want" Francis added

"so that's the plan, making love for the rest of eternity, is that it?"

"yes" Francis said firmly, trying hard to keep a straight face

"regretting your choice yet?" He added when he receives a knowing smirk from her, Mary just giggled as he continue to kiss her playfully all over her body

"well, now that I come to think of it, I don't really know much about afterlife, would you tell me more, Mr. Valois?" Mary teased, imitating the tone she used to pull on him when they were children and she lets him babble about his history lessons like the know-it-all prince that he is.

Francis lied down beside her and turned to look at the stars. He spoke moments after, a serious yet loving tone ringing from his voice.

"Afterlife is full of light Mary, and certainty and bliss. But the only thing that really matter is that we're here together… Whatever the eternity brings, you still are my light." Francis said and Mary's eyes almost swell at the memory of the event. And this time, she was the one who leaned in and kissed his cheek, stroking his face lovingly. They had a beautiful past together, other would say it was tragic, while others will claim it was nothing but ordinary, just two royals who fell in love with each other and eventually died like the rest of us will, there's nothing epic in that, some would say. But Mary doesn't mind and Francis doesn't care, whatever the people in the future would say about them, about their love, their past, nothing would ever change the way that they felt with each other. Nothing would ever ruin the love that they shared, because a love like that cannot be ruined, nor can it ever be forgotten.

 **A/N: Title is from the song "In The Embers" by Sleeping At Last**


End file.
